Page 14 of Booked on You
“How’s your writing going?” I ask, curious.
“Well, I have one week to finish my book, but I have three chapters. I trashed everything and started over again. I’m feeling good about it, though,” she says. It’s nice to hear her talk about this.
“Congratulations. Seems the retail therapy helped,” I offer.
“It did. Anyway, thank you for the coffee. The flavor is incredible, not bitter at all, and strong. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
“Tomorrow,” I tell her, and Scarlett sees herself out.
I stare at the door, wishing she’d come back. Our time together is always fleeting. However, I understand deadlines. They stop for no one.
After I eat breakfast and catch up on my emails, I glance out the window and see that the sun is much higher in the sky now, stretching wide across the backyard. Harry’s pecking around, and I step outside barefoot and take the walkway to the hen laying shed. The stones are hot as I grab the hose and refill the gravity waterers.
Harry moves toward me, like he’s ready to attack, but I stomp my foot and he stops. “Don’t start any shit, dude.”
He’s been testing his boundaries lately.
As I move past him, he notices the food and begins to eat. I move into the hen pen and check for eggs.
“Nice,” I say, gathering several. Farm fresh is my favorite.
I glance toward the cottage as I pass by. The curtains aren’t completely pulled closed, and I see a sliver of the inside. I’m not trying to spy, but the view of her curled up on the couch with one leg tucked under makes me freeze. Her shoulders are slightly hunched forward as she types on her laptop that’s precariously balanced on her knees. Her hair is pulled up, but strands fall loose around her face. It’s obvious she’s concentrating hard.
On the end table beside the couch is the mug she bought from Paris Pottery, the one she said chose her.
The sight of her causes something to stir inside me, because she looks like she’s always belonged there. Like this space has been waiting for her to occupy it.
“Fuck,” I whisper, forcing myself to walk away. My head might as well be in the clouds.
Once I’m back inside, I climb the stairs.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing as I make my way up to the third floor. There’s nothing urgent to work on, but my hands feel restless, and my thoughts won’t settle. I’ve been like this since Scarlett arrived.
The tower room hasn’t changed since I worked last. However, I can’t deny how the walls seem to lean closer and how the air moves more slowly. The late-morning light hits the dust, making it glitter.
I sit on the couch, open the sketchbook I haven’t touched in far too long, and flip through a few old pages. The prototypes I mapped out a few years ago are still there. It’s a bunch of vague shapes, color ideas, and loose measurements. None of them felt like anything I wanted to keep.
My mind drifts away, and I think about Scarlett and how good she looked in the kitchen earlier. She leaned against the counter while I poured her coffee and didn’t take her eyes off me. There was nothing dramatic said, no standout moment that was meant to leave a mark, but maybe that’s why it did. Some people try to matter, while others simply do.
I roll the pencil between my fingers and don’t realize I’m smiling until Willow brushes up against my leg.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
She hops up on the couch next to me with her tail twitching and lets out one solid meow, as if to saybusted.
After I stand and stretch, I glance at the cottage and picture Scarlett in there doing her thing, completely unaware that she’s still swimming in my thoughts an hour later.
I breathe in through my nose and turn back toward the center of the room.
She may have come here to write a book, but it feels like she’s rewriting me instead.
CHAPTER 5
SCARLETT
By the time I return to the cottage, my thoughts are a jumbled mess.
I place the mug on the table and grab the recording device that I use for dictation, hoping the movement of my pacing will help me shake something loose. All I can think about is how I willingly spent my morning talking about mugs with a man I barely know. Somehow, it felt more intimate than most of the relationships I’ve had in the last three years.
